Asher's next step caused the ground beneath his feet to crack, sending small fissures rippling across the entire arena.
He raised his sword, but before attacking, he lifted his index and middle fingers, casting magic while drawing his blade back for a swing.
Stone Control: Stone Prison!
The stones beneath the lich burst from the ground and rose into the air around him. The rocks quickly closed in, encasing the lich within a stone sarcophagus. It would at least keep him occupied for a while and prevent him from interfering in the fight with the Dullahan.
As soon as Cercius reached the Dullahan within seconds, he swung his sword.
The Dullahan reacted skillfully, parrying his swift attacks with impressive speed, showing no sign of being pressured.
A fierce exchange erupted. Both fighters grew faster with every movement, and the ringing of their clashing blades echoed wildly throughout the arena.
As Cercius intensified his assault, offering no openings for counterattacks, his eyes glowed with a golden hue. Since the beginning of their confrontation, he had been using his ability: Golden King's Eye.
To be precise, he was employing the ability of Battle Prediction, allowing him to foresee every movement the Dullahan made—enabling him to attack while flawlessly parrying each counterblow. In doing so, he prevented his opponent from ever seizing the offensive.
Stomp!
Suddenly, in the middle of their clash, Cercius stomped the ground with great force.
Earthquake!
As he cast the spell mid-swordfight, the entire arena began to shake and tremble, making it difficult for the Dullahan to keep his balance.
At that same moment, Cercius further strengthened his assault, accelerating even more—beyond what should have been possible. He seized the instant in which the Dullahan's rhythm faltered.
His mana swirled wildly around him, spiraling around his blade before merging with it—and in that instant, he brought the sword down. Once again, he unleashed the technique he had developed himself:
Cutting Wind!
From point-blank range, he launched a devastating strike. This time, however, his swing did not release a gust of wind—the blade itself became a tearing current that sliced through the air.
For the first time, the Dullahan appeared startled and shocked. He hastily expanded his aura of death to withstand the overwhelming power and raised his sword to defend.
BANG! When the two forces collided, a deafening explosion rang through the arena, a burst of pure energy erupting outward.
This time, Cercius shattered the power the Dullahan had gathered. His blow hurled the undead knight backward, causing both him and his mount to stagger; even his sword now bore visible cracks.
But worse still was the gaping wound now carved into his dark armor—a clear sign that Cercius's strike had finally broken through his defense.
With a confident grin, Cercius admired his work.
At that very moment, the thick stones imprisoning the lich shattered under a surge of dark power. No sooner was he freed than he turned his attention to the Dullahan's wounds, attempting to heal them with his foul magic.
When Cercius saw this, his eyes widened. He immediately readied himself to strike, channeling mana into his legs and bursting forward at top speed—this time toward the lich, leaving the wounded Dullahan behind.
He swung his mana-infused sword, but before he could behead the lich, the injured Dullahan—still astride his spectral horse—charged forward, placing himself between them and bringing his massive blade down toward Cercius.
As an undead, the Dullahan felt neither pain nor fatigue, making him the perfect warrior. Even the gravest wounds or the longest battles could not stop him.
Thus, even with the deep gash Cercius had inflicted upon him, he continued to fight.
"Tch." Cercius clicked his tongue in irritation at the knight's stubbornness. He shifted his stance and redirected his assault toward him once more.
He didn't strike immediately. Instead, he leapt lightly into the air, aiming directly at the Dullahan's head—the one he held in his own hand.
"Simple wounds may not harm you," Cercius declared, "but if I shatter your head, even you won't recover so easily!"
The Dullahan seemed to sense his intent and chose not to counter, instead pulling his head back. Yet, in that instant, Cercius revealed a cunning grin.
"Got you!"
Even though the Dullahan had withdrawn his head, Cercius followed through with his strike, his blade cutting through empty air. But at that same moment, his sword flared with mana, producing an unexpected effect.
A lightning-fast gust of wind burst forth and split the Dullahan's head clean in two.
Instantly, the Dullahan's magical energy surged violently out of control. His mount disintegrated into ash, and he collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
Cercius's cunning strike had succeeded. Without hesitation, he turned his attention to the lich before it could heal the fallen knight and dashed forward.
The lich immediately realized what Cercius intended but had no time to tend to the Dullahan. Instead, it unleashed its own immense death mana in defense.
Revenge of the Dead!
Darkness erupted all around it, transforming into hundreds—thousands—of hands made of shadow that lunged toward Cercius like a vast tidal wave, threatening to bury him beneath them.
Cercius had anticipated this final struggle. Thanks to his eyes, he could read every movement of the dark hands—evading or slicing through them with precise, fluid motions before they could reach him.
Without slowing down, he pressed on and reached the lich in moments.
Meanwhile, the lich had gathered an enormous amount of death mana in its hands, preparing to release it as a last, desperate attack directly at Cercius.
But Cercius had foreseen even this. Just before reaching the lich, he stopped abruptly, stomping the ground and unleashing his earth magic.
Iron Rock Wall!
A thick and wide wall of stone rose from the ground, lifting Cercius atop it and hurling him upward, out of the lich's firing path.
This left the lich no time to change his aim—such vast amounts of mana were not easily redirected once gathered.
From above, Cercius looked down upon the desperate lich. Yet he gave him no chance to recover, diving like a falcon descending upon its prey.
Finally, Cercius struck—the lich's head flew from its shoulders, and the vast pool of dark energy it had amassed scattered into the air.
[You have successfully cleared the third round, "Horde of Death." The next round will begin in five minutes.]
Thus, the system confirmed Cercius's decisive victory over the Horde of Death.
This time, however, the message was different—he was granted a short rest, something he sorely needed after repeatedly using powerful abilities and magic.
The corpses of the undead—lich, Dullahan, and the remaining skeletons—crumbled to ash, scattered by the wind, leaving no trace of their former existence.
Cercius sat casually upon the arena floor and set down his gladius to take a brief break. At that moment, a large golden round shield appeared beside him—the next piece of equipment for the upcoming rounds.
This round had truly been far more difficult than the previous two, which he had cleared with little to no effort.
Once the five-minute intermission ended, the fourth round of the Colosseum began.
Though Cercius remained stable and only mildly fatigued, the short rest had done little to ease his exertion or restore his mana. Fortunately, the last battle hadn't drained him too severely.
[The fourth round of the Colosseum: "Master of the Sword" begins.]
The iron gate opened once again—this time for the fourth round—and Cercius's next opponent entered the arena with slow, deliberate steps.
This time, it was only a single person.
When Cercius saw his foe, his eyes widened slightly in surprise. He had not expected such an opponent—and the name of the round suddenly made perfect sense once he recognized who stood before him.
The person who entered the arena was a man in his mid to late forties. His black hair was slicked back, a black-gray Henriquatre beard framed his face, and a scar ran across his right eye. He was dressed like a classic Roman warlord, complete with a red cloak—only a helmet was missing.
He was, without a doubt, a Swordmaster.
"I am Hector, Great Guardian of Troy!" declared the man who had entered the Colosseum, his proud voice echoing as he drew the sword from his waist.
Cercius, already standing and battle-ready, studied his opponent for a moment.
He did not appear extraordinary or particularly striking. Yet the man resembled Asher—a slightly older version, bearded and worn, exuding the air of a seasoned general who had lived and bled on countless battlefields.
After a brief pause, Cercius raised his sword and shield, taking a battle stance, his focus sharp.
He had no intention of underestimating this opponent and immediately heightened his concentration.
Hector, seeing his readiness, frowned in displeasure. Pointing his sword directly at Cercius, he spoke with clear disapproval in his tone.
"You rude whelp—will you not introduce yourself, and face me with honor and glory in death?"
The Swordmaster's voice carried pride and absolute confidence that he would win this fight. Yet, he also displayed the noble pride of a warrior—granting his foe the chance to name himself and partake in an honorable duel.
Cercius raised an eyebrow, slightly annoyed by the man's self-assured tone—but realized he was right.
Up until now, he had fought only monsters and undead, never bothering with introductions or proper etiquette.
Against a seasoned warrior, however, such behavior would be an insult to the opponent's honor—and a violation of the knightly code he had learned from Arthur.
Lowering his guard slightly, Cercius raised his head and spoke proudly.
"I am Cercius, disciple of the greatest sorceress of all time—and of the King of Knights!" His voice carried pride in both his masters and his own accomplishments for having come this far.
Once his introduction was complete, he raised his guard once more, ready for battle.
"Hmph." Hector snorted, but nodded approvingly with a faint, satisfied smile. He then lowered his sword and assumed no particular stance, as though he didn't need one.
"Very well then—let us begin and bring joy to our hearts," he said. "May we reap eternal glory, even in death, and let our legends endure forever!"
He raised his sword in a simple motion—slowly, almost gracefully—allowing every tiny movement to be seen as he prepared to strike. But in the very next instant, he vanished.
Cercius's eyes widened.
He had completely lost sight of him.
Before he could react, his opponent appeared right before him and swung with an ordinary-looking slash—yet it carried incredible force.
Cercius immediately raised his sword and shield, defending himself. But his foe was far stronger than he appeared—the impact flung Cercius several meters back. Though he managed to block the attack, his arms burned as if they were on fire.
It turned out that he had blocked the strike—and yet not entirely. The aftershock still rippled through him.
Cercius clenched his teeth, swallowing the pain. Since his opponent did not press the advantage, he seized the opportunity himself, charging forward with his gladius.
Hector's movements weren't particularly fast—not slow, but just enough to avoid being called sluggish. It was strange, given his earlier burst of speed, but Cercius could clearly read what he was doing.
Once again, Hector made only a simple parry.
Even though Cercius could see everything and was moving far faster than his opponent—certain that he would land a solid hit—he suddenly felt an uneasy sensation as he struck.
Then it happened: their swords met, and Cercius should have overpowered him.
But he didn't.
The moment their blades clashed, the arm that held Cercius's sword was thrown violently aside, and his gladius was ripped from his hand.
He stared in shock at what followed.
Hector was already moving in for the next strike.
"This is the end. Rest in peace," he said—his voice cold, his face devoid of all emotion.